Murder by Moonlight
by the Black Rose
Summary: Murder mystery set in 1937 Los Angeles from Heero's POV--I've heard people talk about fate or destiny. I don't believe in either. Or at least I didn't until that night back in December 1937, with the frost thick in the air, my fedora pulled low...


Murder by Moonlight

By the Black Rose

A Gundam Wing, Heero x Relena fanfiction.

AN: This is a work in progress, something I've always wanted to write - a mystery - but never had the right idea or the experience/know-how, whatever you want to call it, to do it - and do it right.  I still don't know if I have it.  But I'm giving it a shot.  This is being updated in small pieces of approximately 300-500 words each on my website, blissfulignorance.com in the Toon in Next Time forum, or on my live journal 

Thanks so much for reading!  Love, Rose

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Chapter 1

I've heard people say there's a sucker born every minute.  I can remember the minute this one was born.

It was a crisp December evening in 1937 when I stepped into the back room of the Sanq Dining Room and Club by express request of its owner, Zechs Merquise. 

My fate lay this night in Los Angeles, where dreams are made and brought to life.  But that was only in Hollywood, on the movie screen. Those dreams ended when the projectors stopped, and what was left was poison.  I should know. I've drank enough of it in my lifetime.  

I'd left Chicago and everything else behind. I was clean and trying my hand at detective work; but the business didn't come so easy.  Cash was tight, and my sense of moral obligation had never been high on morals nor obligation; so when a messenger from Merquise showed up at my door, my partner and I took the job, no questions asked.  We knew it was trouble, or at least I did.  I swore I'd never do another damn thing for organized crime, but that's the trouble with self-made promises: the only person you disappoint is you.  No one else ever has to know.

            *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

I've heard people talk about fate or destiny.  I don't believe in either.  Or at least I didn't until that night back in December, 1937, with the frost thick in the air, my coat buttoned tight up to my chin, and my fedora pulled low over my face to block the biting wind from the Pacific, when I set foot in the Sanq for the very first time in my long twenty-five years of life. I'd lived more than twenty-five years in this skin by then. I felt like I was twice my own age.  

I entered right through the front door; my partner was already inside, checking the place out, supposedly blending in with the crowd. Hn. He wasn't always the best at undercover assignments, but we were both a little edgy about the job.  We were supposed to be hired muscle on the transport of a heavy deposit from the club to a 'private banking facility'.  Apparently, my reputation preceded me. Even with Merquise.

The main dining room of the Sanq contained a fairly respectable club where most of the city's high class losers went to show off their fancy clothes and expensive trinkets.  Faceless nobodies all pretending to be somebody so they could look themselves in the mirror every morning and pretend their lives weren't the complete vacuum they really were.  Why they bother me, I don't know.  I guess because I hate wasting time, and that's all these people do - in public, for everyone to witness.  Including me.

But the back room of the club was completely removed from the showy glamour and glitz of the main dining hall.  The back room, called Black Hall, was where 

Merquise kept all the real action - betting action.  Gambling was and still is illegal in California, so to protect his operation, Zechs was in bed with the two most powerful gangs in Los Angeles county.  Literally; it was rumored that his girl was the granddaughter of gang leader Albrecht "the Nines" Noin who ran the east side of town and had more than half of the LA city police force on its payroll. And on a more figurative level, Merquise's relations with Triton aka Trowa Barton's gang stopped several thousand miles short of the bedroom; Barton had to 'settle' for a big cut of the take and leave Merquise to the talents of Ms. Noin.   

But the pockets of the club must have run pretty deep, because even with the deals Zechs had to make to survive, he was still one of the biggest big shots in town.

Black Hall was still too fancy for a guy like me.  Mahogany tables, crystal chandeliers - not the kind of tinsel you'd expect for what was supposed to be just a place to get in on the action. Dealers were set up at tables in the center of the room, or at least, they became the middle when everyone else decided to gather around them like a swarm of flies on a crust of bread.

I caught sight of my employer in the darkest corner of the room, watching the rapid flow of greenbacks from fist to greasy palm to chips, only to be won or lost with the throw of the dice. Fortunes made and lost in seconds - decided by fate or luck, or hell if you believe it, even destiny I suppose.  I mentioned I didn't buy into any of it, not fate or luck and especially not destiny, but that was before I set foot in that dining room, and before she.... Well, we're not to that part of the story yet. 

Zechs Merquise was a tall man with sharp blue eyes.  Military, or rather ex-military, by the looks of his stick straight posture.  Long, blond hair fell over a lieutenant's shoulders - always at attention.  A hawkish nose and hard set features gave way to a square jaw.  Narrowed eyes sliced through the smoke-filled air - alert, almost unblinking. He was the ultimate winner every night those poor schmucks who didn't know any better came to play, but he didn't look like a man enjoying his windfall.

I didn't like him. Never had.  But in this business, there were a lot of guys I didn't like, very few I did.  I had no idea why he picked me for a job like this. As far as I knew, Zechs liked me and my partner about as much as we liked him - not at all. But he had given me and Maxwell the cash up front, so the only thing that really mattered was whether I could tolerate him long enough to get the job done.

Yeah, yeah I could.  But just barely.

"Ladies and gents! Oops. Or w-rather just the gents...." A man's tenor bellowed with just the faintest hint of an alcohol-induced slur. It came from the craps table to the front right of center.  A loud-mouthed, braid-wearing nimwit undid his solid-color navy blue tie, took off his tweed jacket, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to just above his elbows in preparation to shoot the dice.  Like I said.  Duo Maxwell wasn't always the best at undercover assignments or 'blending in', but it had nothing to do with his abnormally long hair, boyishly plump cheeks, or insipid grin.  He just stood out.  Asking him not to was like asking a fish to grow legs, walk out of the water, and tap dance on land – it can't even hear the request. 

I'm probably harder on him than I should be.  We've been friends for a long time.  He'd follow me to hell and back, and practically already had.  But for the life of me, I've never been able to figure out why. He was like the lost puppy that followed me home as a child. I fed it once and it was attached to me for life. A rare friend.  But equally annoying as it was loyal.  I scowled in Duo's direction, but it was a waste of effort.  He threw the bones at the table felt and yelled: "Papa needs a new pair of shoes!"

The die hit the back wall and bounced back into fair territory, settling just inside the pass line.  Snake eyes.  Maxwell always said he liked living on the edge.  But the dumb lump who wasn't really as dumb as he looked often missed how close he came to dying - by my hands.

"Aces!" A mixture of groans and cheers accompanied the renewed flurry of activity. 

"Paying behind. Place yer bets, place yer bets. We've got a hot table, fellas, a hot table." The dealer called out.  

Sharp eyes turned my way, a few seconds before Zechs detached himself from the darkness to march over to my chosen spot near the door.  Dammit, Maxwell.

As he approached, Merquise's deep voice held a tone below the din of the room that was solid and remarkably crystal clear.  "Yuy."

That was a name I knew too well. One I had been trying to leave behind, but wasn't willing to let go of me just yet.  "Yeah."

He glanced over his shoulder at the swarms of faceless joes around his tables, then back at me.  Two thin eyebrows slightly darker than the color of his yellow hair pressed together into neat, already formed creases; he looked like he was about to ask me to donate a kidney for a dying relative or something – as if it was the most important request in the world.

His mouth opened to speak. But as luck would have it, a loud roar erupted at the same time - from the craps table.  I looked over his shoulder to see what the ruckus was about.  Some drunk had seized the dice from the table.  Security had him and were escorting him none-too-gently towards the door. When I turned my attention back to Merquise, his lips were sealed shut.    

They cracked open just enough to say: "Not here, not now."

I nodded. My eyes strayed over to the exit door.  The drunk took a fist to the stomach before being thrown out into the alley.  I looked back at Zechs.  "When?" 

"Dinner first. Dining room. Meet me in twenty."

I shrugged, trying to appear uninterested.  "Your treat."

A smile raised one corner of his mouth. "Of course."  

He turned around to go back to his dark corner.  I shot a look at my partner. The craps table had recovered nicely. Duo inclined his head a bit, asking the question: "What's up?"

I shrugged again and motioned to the bowl.  He shook his head and refocused on throwing for his point numbers.

I went back to my leisurely pose against the wall near the back door. Across the room and diagonal from my position was the entrance hallway leading to the dining room.  At about ten minutes prior to my appointed meeting time with Merquise, I began pacing the circumference of 'Black Hall' towards that end of the room.  

I was still several yards shy of my goal when the doors from the entrance hallway were thrown open, and the two meaty-fingered thugs (with half a brain shared between them) serving as 'guards' stood aside for a young man who stomped into the room like a toddler throwing a tantrum. I placed him right about twenty or twenty-one, but he looked years younger than that.  

He had dark gold hair, not slicked back as was the fashion, but stringy and loose; it hung down over a large forehead with just a bit of a widow's peak.  He was tall with a slight build and obviously came with money to spend because he was dressed better than anyone else in this part of the club.  The kid ran a hand through his bangs and combed it out of his eyes.  Light flashed on two gold cufflinks on either side of his left hand sleeve.  They were large, flat ovals – the type that usually bore initials, but I wasn't close enough to read them.  Though he looked vaguely familiar.

His face was lean and from his narrowed gaze and hurried gait, I figured the kid was supposed to be angry.  But he had all the appearance of a good natured school boy who'd just had his milk money taken by a bully.

Damn. When did I get so old?

He made a beeline straight for the man in charge.  As he passed near me, I recognized his face, but just couldn't place him.  He looked like someone I'd seen, but not the same person I knew.  The thought bothered me because I never forget a face.  And I knew he had to be important because he was approaching Zechs after having burst in on this joint. 

And was still alive.

Merquise remained in the shadows even as the kid came near enough to grab his collar and try to pin the club owner against the wall.  But it took Zechs all of a split second to break the younger man's hold and shove him off. To my growing annoyance, the dim lighting made it hard to see much of their expressions.

"I know what you're doing!" The kid's voice accused Merquise in a loud tone.  

Too loud. 

"And I can't let you get away with it."

I scratched my head.  This kid was no gangster, and he was apparently no gambler, either.  What did he mean by he knew what Zechs was doing?  And get away with it?  What's to get away with?  The whole town knew what went on in the back room of The Sanq.  Hell, the mayor, Old Man Winner himself, got a cut of the profits from this joint.

Wait a min--

Another roar erupted from that infernal craps table, my partner at the heart of the commotion.  I glanced away from the scene in front of me to find Maxwell with my eyes.  He was standing in the middle of a sea of gamblers, some of them patting him on the back as he talked and uttered prayers to the gods of dice.  I caught his gaze and curled my upper lip into a warning snarl.  He rolled his eyes and then rolled the die.  By the time I glanced back at Zechs and the kid, I knew I'd missed something.

The kid stood in the light, his hair mussed and blood trickling from a cut on his left cheek.  His voice rose well above the noise of the crowd.  

"I'll clean up this town and take you, my father, and anyone else down that stands in my way!"  

I couldn't help but shake my head.  The kid was either brave or stupid.  Maybe an equal mixture of both, and flavored with innocence. I admired and pitied him all at once. Los Angeles was run by gangs and crooked politicians. It had been as long as I could remember.  And his father, because he was the spitting image of Mayor Winner (only much much younger), was up to his eye teeth in the town's daily dose of poison. He turned a pretty profit on his illegal dealings, something not as out of sorts for politicians as it should be.  They're all pocketing money that doesn't belong to them.  Some of them are just more overt than others.

But the town wasn't going to change.  Not for me, not for anybody.  Too many of its citizens were high on the way things were.  But I was sure that someday, like Narcissus, the "city of angels" would eventually meet its demise in the arms of its sins. 

The kid with a younger version of Old Man Winner's face rapidly approached, making his way for the door.  Lucky for me, he wasn't watching too close where he was going.  In hindsight, it might not have been so lucky after all.  And maybe I was really a sucker before she came waltzing into my life.  It's just easier to blame her.  I can't say why I did what I did, only that it seemed the right thing to do at the time.  A well-timed half step brought the kid plowing into me.  He bounced back a step and looked up.

"Sorry, sir."

Sir.  I must be getting old.  I shrugged it off like it was no big deal and leaned back against the door frame. My position made it impossible for him to leave without invading my personal space.  "No harm done.  But a word of advice, kid.  Watch your step from now on."  
  


He frowned at me like I had just insulted him.  He made the move to exit the room, but I was quicker than that.  I snagged his hand and pressed a card into his palm in the guise of a handshake.  I leaned forward over his arm and muttered close to his ear. "And if you run into this guy, you'd best say 'excuse me' if you want to stay friends." I released his hand from my grip.

He was far too wet behind his ears, and would have given my game away to anyone who was watching.  Fortunately, no one was. He stared at the card. "Wh-what's this for? Who are you?"

"No one you know," I said and stepped away from the wall, heading back towards the center of the room.  I turned around when I was a safe distance away, determined to shoo him off if he hadn't left.  But the kid must have had at least some sense, because when I looked, he was gone.  

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

The dining room fizzed and sparkled like expensive champagne.  Conversation filled the air with a low, alcoholic buzz and just the occasional bubble of laughter rising above the rest of the chatter.  A jazz band played onstage a low melody; the metallic clang of the cymbals set a quick, upbeat rhythm for the distracted audience.

I followed Zechs at what I considered a safe distance.  I didn't know what exactly he had in mind.  As I passed through the pseudo-hallways between booths and tables, I kept my eyes moving, watching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary.  I still didn't fully trust Merquise, even with a room full of witnesses.  Call me paranoid, but I'd rather be over-cautious than under six feet of dirt.  I'd decided long ago, I'm gonna check out on my own terms, no one else's.

But all I saw was fine china and crystal glistening on every table; tuxedoed waiters serving wine and filet mignon to all the swells out for a night on the town.  But all the money in the world couldn't buy class.

I hadn't been back in Los Angeles that long, just long enough to recognize the city's biggest players.  At a large, round table to the right of the stage sat Trowa Barton and company.  The tall, lean gang-leader had a long jaw; his normally slicked back hair – lengthier in the front because it was worn combed back over the top of his head to hang even with the back – hung in pieces around his face.  It looked like he had originally styled it in the usual way, but then some physical exertion caused it to fall into his eyes.  It would have made him look years younger if it hadn't been for the hard set of his jaw and cruel stare.  Six of his men filled the other seats around him, also wearing suits.  They had necks as thick as their thick skulls.

At a smaller table to the left, and back one row from Barton's, sat Dorothy Catalonia and her entourage of young Hollywood stars and starlets.  She had risen to somewhere near the top of sought after blonde actresses for the big screen in record time; not the least of which had more to do with whom she was in bed with, financially as well as physically, than her actual acting abilities.

She was pencil thin in an ivory gown cut low in the front and lower in back.  Her long, yellow hair was piled up on top of her head with just a few strands escaping the heap to hang down on either side of her face; she looked like a million bucks. That was her job – look pretty, screw pretty.  But if you ever looked in her eyes you'd see the truth: she was dead from the inside out.

The other members of her crowd were some of the latest pretty boys paid to bare muscles in movies like "Caribbean Nights" and "The Problem with Blondes."  Dorothy's boy toys.  And toys they were.  She'd use hem for her purposes, and when she grew tired of their empty heads and brawny biceps, they ended up parking cars at Morton's.

Merquise finally stopped at the booth directly across from center stage - an owner's luxury, no doubt - and motioned at me to sit down.  I nodded and sat down facing him.  I have to admit, I was nervous.  Whatever Zechs wanted to talk about had to be killer.  He looked like he was sweating, and a man like Merquise, who walked a thin line between two of the most powerful gangs in the county from the time he got up till the time he went to bed, had to have nerves, and balls, of absolute steel. 

I waited none-too-patiently for Zechs to tell me why I was here.  I'm not a patient guy, but Merquise wasn't going to tell me a thing before he was ready, so I had to keep my cool.  I'd only me him once before this - in Chicago, when he had some business with some of Nines's boys.

He was an arrogant S.O.B. who didn't need any of us local boys' help with nothing. So the fact he was asking anything of me now spoke entire encyclopedia volumes without uttering a sound.  I couldn't help but wonder what it would be, but I'd be damned if I would let him know that I was curious.

A server came to our table and poured Merquise a glass of champagne, then moved the bottle over my wineglass.  I reached over and tipped the champagne bottle upright before the guy could pour a drop.

"Club soda.  With lime."

The server bowed and quickly retreated.  I glanced up and caught the fleeting look of amusement on Zechs's face.  I shrugged and went back to watching the dining room.  He sipped his champagne.

"I suppose you're curious why I asked you here."

"Curiosity is a waste of effort.  When you're ready to talk, you'll talk."

"True."

The waiter returned with my club soda and lime.  I squeezed the wedge into my drinkglass and heard Merquise order two plates of prime rib.  I took a swig of my drink and downed it all in one gulp.  Zechs chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"I've never seen anyone shoot club soda before."

I shrugged.  "What do you want?"

"I need a favor."

I was glad I had finished my drink.  Or else that statement probably would have had me choking on it.  "I don't do favors."

"It's a paid favor."

"Keep talkin."

"I hear you're out."

"So that's why you're asking."  I motioned to the waiter to bring me another soda, then turned back to face Zechs.  He was watching something over my right shoulder through narrowed eyes.

I frowned.  He was glaring in the direction of Barton's table.  But, there were a number of people in the dining room, and half of them were sitting behind me.  Besides, he and Barton were supposed to be business partners.  I threw a quick glance over my shoulder in time to see Trowa change places with one of his suited monkeys - so he could see the stage.  

I turned back to Merquise.  "So, what's this favor you wanna ask?"

The lively chatter that had been a constant companion suddenly died.  "Ladies and gentlemen.  For your listening pleasure, Relena Darlian."

I no longer had Merquise's attention.  He was mesmerized by the activity on stage.  I heaved a sigh and turned at the smattering of applause, just as she stepped into view.  The stage lights lit the sequins on her dress and lit a fire in the room.  A couple of cat calls and some loud whistling proved my point – money just can't buy class.   But it did explain why the joint was filled with more Johns than Nancys - they were here to see 'her'.

She floated forward and brought both hands up to cup her stationary microphone, like a lover might cup her fella's face.  And that's when I got a look at her, a good look at lady destiny.

She had long, platinum-colored hair that tumbled in perfect waves to her bare shoulders, and blue eyes that looked like they had been painted on a living doll with watercolor.  She wore heavy makeup by the tiny creases around the eyes.  Her lips were too red – she was a child playing dress up.  I pegged her at about eighteen, and trying to look old enough to be there.

There were prettier women in Hollywood. It was stiff competition in a place whose trade was beauty and goods were glamour.  But it wasn't her beauty that drew you in.  It was the way she looked at you and made you feel like you were the only guy in the room. You could see her heart in those eyes – pure and new and full of love.

People can only look like that when they're brand new.  Once you've been around and seen some of the world… You see things that cut right to the bone, and those cuts never fully heal.  You don't want them to. You begin to wear them around like merit badges to prove how tough you are, and forget you were ever something else – that you were supposed to be like she was right at that moment.

I have my scars…

And that's what you want to protect her from. Or at least that's what I wanted. All it took was a single glance from those watercolor eyes.  

That was my minute.

And I was born.


End file.
